Page 237 of Desires of a Duke Collection

May 1814, Mayfair, Woodleigh House

A sense of dread had been building in Michael, Lord Crawford, from the moment he entered the huge mansion owned by the Woodleigh dukedom. Although he was sure he wasn’t late, his chronometer had stopped at exactly one o’clock, and no matter what he tried, the timepiece would not restart.

“His Grace, the Duke of Woodleigh, will see you now,” the portly butler said when he reappeared from wherever he had gone more than ten minutes earlier. With his pocket watch out of commission, Michael couldn’t be sure that much time had passed, but it certainly felt far longer.

He followed the servant past several closed doors to one that stood open to reveal a dark paneled study. With its coffered ceiling above and Turkish carpeting below, it reminded Michael of his banker’s office—stuffy, pretentious, and smelling of cheroot smoke. The man sitting behind the gigantic ebony desk even looked as if he could be a banker.

“You must be Crawford?”

“I am, Your Grace,” he acknowledged, bowing deeply.

“My butler tells me we had an appointment.” Bertram, Duke of Woodleigh, waved to a wooden chair in front of his desk. “Have a seat.”

The manner in which the words were spoken had Michael on alert. The footman tasked with sending word of his desire for a meeting had said the duke would see him.

Had the servant been mistaken?

“I sent a request earlier this morning, Your Grace. The reply said you could meet me at two o’clock.”

The older man waved a hand, not bothering to look up from whatever had his attention. “Yes, yes. What’s this about?”

His hands pressed onto the tops of his doeskin-encased thighs, Michael said, “Your daughter, Your Grace. I’d like your permission to court her.”

Woodleigh raised his head for the first time since Michael had entered the study and regarded him with a curious expression. “Are you speaking of Lady Helena?”

“I am, Your Grace.”

Settling back into his leather chair, the duke let out a huff of breath. “That’s not going to be possible,” he stated.

“Your Grace?” Michael swallowed.

“You’re too late. She’s already been promised to someone else,” Woodleigh stated.

For a moment, Michael was sure his heart had stopped beating. His vision grayed at the edges. “Does... does she know that, Your Grace?”

One of Woodleigh’s graying brows arched up. “Well, I should hope so. She was present when the papers were signed,” he replied. The brow dropped when he seemed to reconsider his comment. “Although she was rather young at the time.” He chuckled softly. “It’s been fifteen years or so since I signed that contract.”

“So... an arranged marriage then?” Michael asked in a small voice. His heart had begun beating again, the pounding so loud he feared the older man could hear it from across the desk.

“Well, of course. Have you already spoken to her about courtship?” the duke asked suddenly.

“I... I have, Your Grace. From her comments on the matter, I don’t believe she’s aware she is betrothed.”

Woodleigh’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Did you already propose marriage?”

Knowing his pained expression gave him away, Michael merely nodded. “We have been acquaintances for many years, my lord. My regard for her—”

“Matters not.” The duke set aside his pen. “Have you two been playing house?”

Michael’s eyes rounded. “Of course not, Your Grace. I would never. Not without your permission to marry her.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Woodleigh remarked, waving his hand as if in dismissal. His gaze turned to the papers on his desk.

Not about to give up, Michael blurted, “If she married me, she would one day be the Marchioness of Fenwick.” Lifting his chin in defiance, he added, “I love her.”

The duke rolled his eyes. “She’s going to be the Duchess of Weston,” he countered. “She is betrothed to Weston’s oldest whelp.” His attention darted to the side for a moment. “Hugh... Herbert...

“Lord Harcourt?” Michael stated in disbelief, a rock falling into his stomach at the thought of his Helena with Harcourt Sheppard.

“Harcourt, yes. That’s his name,” Woodleigh said, a pudgy forefinger waving about. “There’s a provision in the contract which releases her from the obligation in the event he dies before they wed, but I’m quite certain he’ll be taking my daughter to wife before the end of this decade.”

Michael swallowed. For a moment, he wondered if an accident could be arranged. One in which Harcourt Sheppard met his untimely death by the hand of a highwayman or a deranged horse. Perhaps an especially hard punch during a bare knuckle match. A stray bullet from a hunting foray. A perfectly placed stab from a fencing foil with a missing blossom.

Mayhap he would be required to challenge the arse to a duel in Wimbledon Common. Having never shot a pistol, he was as likely to shoot himself as he was Harcourt, though.

“I assure you, Your Grace, I hold Lady Helena in the highest regard. I would never do anything to hurt her.”

From the way the duke narrowed his eyes, Michael thought for a moment he had succeeded in changing Woodleigh’s mind. When the man scoffed and then chuckled, he realized he hadn’t.

“Go home, Lord Crawford. Find another young lady with whom to play house. God knows there must be a dozen diamonds of the first water who would suit the Fenwick marquessate,” Woodleigh said on a sigh. “Helena is marrying Harcourt Sheppard, heir to the Weston dukedom.”

Not about to give up so easily, Michael puffed out his chest. “And if she doesn’t?” Stunned at hearing the challenge in his own voice, he quickly added, “Your Grace?”

“I’ll send her to a nunnery,” the duke announced. “Now off with you.” Woodleigh returned his attention to whatever he had been reading when Michael arrived.

Finally rising from his chair, Michael bowed deeply and backed out of the study. When he turned to head for the front door, he stopped short and blinked.

Lady Helena stood before him, tears streaming down her face. Dressed in a white gown with mahogany ringlets framing her oval face, she would have appeared positively angelic but for her reddened nose and puffy eyes.

“My lady,” he said softly.

“Oh, Michael,” she whispered before a sob robbed her of breath. “I’m so sorry. I have no memory of a betrothal. Especially not to him,” she added as more tears fell. “I love you.”

Michael pulled a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and held it against one of her cheeks. He stared at her for several seconds, memorizing everything about her. “I share your sentiments, I assure you, my love. Best of luck,” he said in a quiet voice.

He took her hand to his lips, kissing it in the manner of how he wished he could kiss her on the lips. When he let go, he straightened and strode towards the front door. Even when he heard her keening cries and sobs, he took his leave of Woodleigh House without so much as a backward glance.